“Richard was at The Polygon? I did not know that.”
“He was. He brought biscuits and made himself very agreeable.”
Mr Darcy set the letters down. He turned to face her fully, and the air between them tightened—a tautness in the space, as if the hallway had contracted by several inches. His expression was carefully neutral, but his eyes were alert and attentive.
“Very agreeable?”
“Yes, to all of them.” She met his eyes and held them. “Especially Jane.”
The flicker across his face was brief, complicated, and Elizabeth could not interpret it.
“I see,” he managed.
“Good evening, Mr Darcy.”
“Good evening, Miss Bennet.”
She climbed the stairs to her chamber. She closed the door and took a deep breath.
Below, the dinner bell would ring soon. She would sit at his left, as she always did, and they would speak of polite nothings.
Fifteen
The note arrived at half past nine, in Richard’s hand. That was never a good sign, because his cousin did not write notes. Instead, he walked into Darcy’s study unannounced, dropped into chairs uninvited, and delivered his opinions without the courtesy of a preamble. A written summons implied forethought, which implied either a military operation or a catastrophe.
Come to Matlock House at eleven. Do not be late.
R.F.
Darcy arrived at Matlock House in Berkeley Square—stone-fronted, immaculate, a residence which announced its occupants’ rank without condescending to vulgarity. The butler admitted him with a bow and directed him to the parlour.
The room was large, high-ceilinged, and furnished with the restrained elegance that Lady Matlock imposed on every space she occupied. Pale walls, gilt-framed portraits, a carpet that had survived three generations of Fitzwilliams and still managed to appear fresh. The curtains were drawn back to admit the morning light, and a fire burned low in the grate despite the season—Lady Matlock felt the cold, and the household adjusted accordingly.
Richard stood by the mantelpiece, one elbow propped on the marble, his posture casual. However, his expression was not so casual. There was a set to his jaw that Darcy recognised—he had committed to an advance and was waiting for the signal to move.
The Earl occupied his usual chair by the window. He was reading a letter, his spectacles perched on the end of his nose. He raised his eyes when Darcy entered and frowned.
“Fitzwilliam. Do you know why we are here?”
“I do not, Uncle. I received a note.”
“As did we.” The Earl held up a folded paper. “Our son has developed epistolary habits. This is unprecedented and therefore alarming.”
Lady Matlock was seated on the settee, her back perfectly straight, her hands folded over a cup of tea. She regarded her son with the penetrating gaze that had governed the Fitzwilliam family for forty years.
“Richard. We are assembled. You may begin.”
Richard straightened from the mantelpiece and clasped his hands behind his back.
“I shall be direct,” he said.
“A welcome novelty,” the Earl murmured.
“I wish to court a lady.”
The effect was immediate. Lady Matlock’s cup paused halfway to her lips. The Earl removed his spectacles. The silence that followed had a quality of held breath—the particular suspension that preceded either celebration or disaster, and none of them yet knew which.
Lady Matlock recovered first. Her face broke into an expression Darcy had never witnessed on hisaunt—unguarded, unreserved delight. She set the cup down with a clink that betrayed the tremor in her hand.